


Leaf and Twig

by LadyJanelly



Series: homeless!tyler [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Homelessness, M/M, Tyler is 17 in some chapters, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanelly/pseuds/LadyJanelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots set in the "Sink These Roots" 'verse. Prompt fills, head-canons. I will probably be adding little snippets to this work as long as I'm writing this pairing, but the main narrative arc is complete in "Sink." (If I start another long work set in this 'verse, I'll create another title)</p><p>Have something you'd like to see? Feel free to drop me a line in the comments.</p><p>Want to podfic or make some art or playlists? Feel free! I'd love to link it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 188 miles (wherein Tyler and Jordie stop being such jerks to each other)

Jordie stares at the center of the steering wheel, trying to motivate the car to start with force of will alone. He turns the key again, and there isn’t even a whir, not any sign of effort.

“You’re not even trying,” he complains. Turns the key again and listens to another stupid click.

If Jordie was the kind of person to beat on inanimate objects when he’s pissed, he’d be bruising his hands against the steering wheel. Instead, he takes a slow breath, takes out the key, gets out of the car and very carefully does not slam the door behind him. 

Fuck. He is stuck in fucking Cedar Park, Texas. Three and a half hours from Allen. Jamie is with the Texas Stars, probably on a plane by now. The brothers said goodbye to their parents early that morning, put them on a plane headed for home, so they can’t help him. 

He’s not sure if he has any guys on the Americans that he would ask to make a seven-hour round trip to come pick him up, and even if he wanted to, and they weren’t all headed home already after their season, and if one would do it, his car would still be sitting in a hotel parking lot in Cedar Park. 

Fuck. He puts his head down on the roof, grits his teeth. 

“Car trouble?” 

Jordie has no reason to cringe at the sound of Tyler’s voice. The guy has never done anything to him. Not really. Not like fucking up an important relationship and leaving him homeless on the street. 

Recognizing his irritation as guilt doesn’t do much to help Jordie reign it in.

He gets a hold of himself, sighs and turns. 

“Yeah. Won’t start.”

Tyler nods. Chews on his thumbnail. He looks so different than the first time Jordie saw him, even if only a few short months have gone by. Older, with his hair short and dark all over instead of the gaudy Mohawk. He’s leaner around the face, broader through the shoulders. If Jordie thought he was worryingly handsome before, he really looks like a guy that’s out of Jamie’s league now. 

But. Tyler walked out, to nothing, rather than stay as Jamie’s whore. Left when he could have wrapped Jamie around his little finger instead, could have taken every advantage, fucked with Jamie's head until he got everything he wanted from Jamie. Tyler left a considerable stack of money behind because he cared what Jamie thought of him, even if they were broken up. 

“You know anything about cars?” Jordie asks. He feels he has to, that he would have asked it of any of his guy friends, but it kind of puts him back on firm ground when Tyler shakes his head. It’s not homophobic if he was right, right?

“Nah. But I could phone-a-friend.” 

Jordie is fucked enough that even that small chance of getting out of this without a tow bill that almost makes abandoning the car fiscally reasonable makes him nod. “Yeah. If you could. I’d appreciate it.”

Tyler nods and takes out his phone, dials and says hi to someone. “Hey, so I’m down here in South Texas and my friend’s car won’t start. Any idea what I could try?”

He listens, looks over at Jordie. “Try the radio?”

Jordie kicks himself for not thinking it first, to check the battery. He turns it on, and the music is fine, loud and strong. He turns it off again. Tyler, still on the phone, motions to Jordie to pop the hood. Leans in and pokes around while Jordie swelters behind the wheel, the door open to let in whatever pathetic breeze the weather graces him with.

Tyler steps where Jordie can see him, mimes turning the key as he talks to the other person. Jordie tries it, hears the now-familiar click. 

Tyler disappears behind the raised hood again, gestures one more time for Jordie to try and then gives up, puts his phone away.

“Dion says you’re probably looking at the starter, maybe just the cables if you’re lucky,” Tyler says. He looks resigned, far-from-thrilled. “Look. Jamie put me on his AAA account. I can call you a tow to a repair shop.”

Jordie nods. That’s really the best he can hope for. He just. Fuck. The ECHL is pro hockey, but it ain’t really a living wage. 

Tyler fidgets with his keys. “You can ride back to Dallas with me. If you want to. I won’t need Jamie’s truck for the next week; I can drive Ron and David’s car if I have to go somewhere. Drop me off at their house. You use the truck until Jamie is ready to come back to Dallas; drive the truck down to him and drive your car back.”

It’s a workable plan. Better than staying in a cheap-ass hotel while his car’s in the shop over the weekend and then until it gets fixed. He needs to get his apartment packed up and his boxes stored at Jamie’s, and he’d probably have been wishing for the truck by the time he was done making small loads in his car. 

“If it’s not a problem,” he says, like Tyler doesn’t know he’s pretty much screwed if Tyler decides it’s too much work, or he’d rather not be in a car with Jordie for half the day.

Tyler shrugs, but he takes his phone out again, calls AAA with their address, what’s wrong with the car, asks for recommendations for shops nearby. It’s weird for Jordie, who has been the one taking care of Jamie, taking care of the younger guys on his teams for so long, to just hang out and let this get done without him. 

“Better move your stuff over before the truck gets here,” Tyler suggests, and Jordie moves his crap. It’s not like he brought a ton of stuff for less than a week, but it’s stuff he’d rather not leave in the car for who-knows-who to mess with while it’s in the shop. 

The tow driver shows up and Tyler explains how his friend had been driving him around and the car broke down, because if Tyler was not in the car then he can’t use the card. Tyler lies with an ease that makes Jordie wary. It would be so easy to end up on the wrong end of that smile, that easy shrug, the words that come so smoothly.

They watch Jordie’s little old car get loaded up on the flatbed, and then Tyler glances at Jordie. Jordie’s first impression had been that Tyler wasn’t that big, but the kid nearly looks him in the eye. Probably still growing, Jesus fuck. What are the odds, two kids like Tyler and Jamie getting together and staying together and not tearing each other apart with their inexperience?

“Ready?” Tyler asks, and Jordie hears in his voice that he’s still uncomfortable with this. That he’d rather not do it, but he’s doing it anyway.

“Yeah.” Jordie nods. Climbs in Jamie’s familiar truck, tries to relax with an unfamiliar driver behind the wheel.

============

Tyler can’t think of a time he was on a more tense road-trip. Maybe the last time his parents tried to take him on vacation and he kept his headphones on the entire six hours each way, trying to drown out the sounds of their low-level dissatisfaction with themselves, their marriage, him. He keeps the radio on, and Jordie doesn’t try to change the channel, doesn’t turn the volume down. It’s too warm to roll the window down, but the road sound is discouragement enough to any hope of conversation.

Tyler is sincerely glad. 

They stop at a Whattaburger around noon. Tyler probably would have driven straight through to Dallas, but between messing with Jordie’s car and waiting for the tow truck to show up he’s hungry before they even hit Waco. 

“Hey, let me get it,” Jordie says, and Tyler stops himself from bristling. He might not need charity anymore. He might have a little spending money, rightfully earned helping out Ron and David’s neighbors, doing favors for people he knows from church (legitimate favors. The kind that don’t involve him being even a little bit naked). He’s still saving Jordie a shit-load of money and inconvenience and if he wants to buy lunch, there’s no real reason besides pride for Tyler not to let him.

“Yeah. Okay. A Whattachicken and fries. Chocolate shake.” 

Jordie goes to get the food and Tyler stakes out a booth in the back, far enough that he can’t smell the grease in the kitchen. Jordie finds him and brings his own soda, the little orange plastic pyramid with their order number on it. 

They just need to eat, and then Tyler will get them the rest of the way to Dallas. He’s pretty sure Jordie would jump at the chance to drive, but that’s a level of trust that Tyler can’t bring himself to yet. They’re probably going to hit Friday traffic, so figure that in, it makes about four more hours and then he’ll be at Ron and David’s and he won’t see Jordie for months. 

“Hey,” Jordie says, and his voice has that serious ‘we should talk’ tone that Jamie gets sometimes and it’s all Tyler can do to not cut him off cold.

“Look,” Jordie continues when Tyler doesn’t encourage him but doesn’t shut him down either. “I know. We started on the wrong foot. We. I had assumptions. And I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Tyler says, looks over to see if the tray with their food is coming anytime soon.

“I mean it,” Jordie says, and Tyler tracks him with his peripheral vision but doesn’t turn his head. Jordie’s hands are on the table, fingers laced together. Not a good position to swing from, even if Jordie was going to hit him here. He’d have to swing double-fisted or separate his hands first. Tyler’s pretty sure he could dodge. 

“I heard you,” Tyler says. “I said okay.” 

Jordie frowns, and Tyler leans his elbow on the back of his booth seat. 

“And that’s…” Jordie starts, frustrated, but he falters like he has no idea where he’s going with that. 

“Words,” Tyler says. A Whattaemployee is wandering around with a tray, looking at the little paper slip. Tyler gets his hopes up, but she hands it off to another table. 

“The fuck do you want from me?” Jordie asks. 

Tyler cuts him a glance, because seriously? “What do you want me to say?” Tyler asks. “Words are nothing, dude.”

Their food still isn’t there. Tyler really should have taken the Whatta-drive-through. 

For just a second he thinks Jordie is gonna be dumb enough to offer him money or something, but he settles himself, leans back in the booth, frowns like Tyler is some puzzle for him to take apart.

“So what do you want?” Jordie asks again, more measured. “If words don’t count, what does?”

“Look,” Tyler sighs. “We want the same thing. For Jamie to be happy. I’m gonna try really hard not to be a dick to you, and you just…” he waves his hand, not even sure himself what he expects from Jordie. _Go be you somewhere else_ is the best he could translate it and even he knows that would be fucking rude.

Jordie mulls that over, takes a sip of his soda, and fucking finally their food is delivered out to their table, a mound of catsup packets dropped on the dull formica. Tyler unwraps his sandwich with impatient hands and Jordie takes his own, distracted and slow.

They don’t talk much, the rest of the ride back to civilization (seriously, nothing between Austin and Dallas meets that definition). Tyler drives to Ron and David’s place, trying to tamp down on the instinct against leading someone he doesn’t know to his _home_. Jordie isn’t going to trash their house over them being queer, over them letting Tyler stay. Isn’t going to show up and make a scene on their front porch. 

He gets out, leaves the engine running, grabs his bag and half-waves over his shoulder. 

Fucking finally, he thinks as he goes in, as he is engulfed by the old-people smell of the house, Ron cooking something in the kitchen, David probably in his office. Finally that’s over.

===========

There is no fucking reason for Jordie to call him two days later. No reason for him to say “Hey, I got nothing to do until Jamie is done with the playoffs. I was wondering if you’d like to catch lunch. Maybe you could give me some pool tips. Up my game a little. Or golf. Golf if you want. That’d be cool too.”

He’s awkward, like he’s asking Tyler out on a date or something, but there’s none of that feel to it, no hint that it’s code for something else.

Tyler doesn’t have to say yes.

He does anyway.


	2. Studio Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Okay so a little background on this one. As I was writing it, one of my frequent comments to @iamsmilingallthetime was that I keep getting deja vu because this Dallas is the same Dallas from another AU fic I had written in another fandom (The Losers) and that fic had a cameo by an AU Eliot (from Leverage), and Smiling had said how cool it would be to have some kinda crossover since they were in the same city, so here it is)

Eliot watches the man he’s training hit the heavy bag, one hand gripping a belt that’s tied around it at chest level, his feet on a wheeled dolly to simulate skates on ice. 

“There,” Eliot points out, and the man continues for three more swings but then stops, breathing heavy. “That’s when you ran out of steam. You gotta switch it up then, slow it down and steal a breath or two.” He goes on, pointing out how the angle of Antoine’s blows shifted when he hit the exhaustion point, started glancing instead of landing solid. 

Antoine gets his breathing under control and repeats the exercise with the left hand, a flurry of blows, uppercuts and roundhouses, aiming for what would be ribs and face. It’s not quite a pattern, but building a vocabulary of movements to get past his opponent’s guard.

They work most of Antoine’s hour, heavy bag, punching pads and then a little light sparring.

They stand and drink some water when it’s done, hair sticking to their necks with sweat, shirts drenched.

“Hey,” Antoine says. “You ever train queers here?” 

Eliot takes another sip of his water. The comment seems out of line from what he knows of Antoine’s character, but he’s had to throw out guys he thought were decent before. 

“Got a couple that come in to the invite-only MMA,” Eliot says, testing the waters, giving the man the benefit of the doubt, hoping it’s the language barrier tripping him up.

Antoine nods thoughtfully. “My captain, his boyfriend threw down with some guy I guess. Handed him his ass. Jamie wants him to learn not to get beat up. He’s been asking around if anybody knew who teaches queers to fight. He wants private lessons for his boy.”

Eliot smirks, amused that it had been his reaction getting tested and not the other way around. 

“I don’t have a problem with it. I just don’t really do beginners classes.”

Antoine grins, slow and wide. “His kinda money, you make an exception, yes?” 

Yes. Giving fighters that push from near-pro to pro is more Eliot’s thing, but he’s got a slot open in his schedule, and short of calling Jake and Cougar in, he has no better person to recommend instead of himself. 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting a hockey player’s boyfriend to be like, right up until Jamie Benn steps into his studio and the dude beside him is _exactly_ what Eliot should have pictured, tall and lean, gym-pretty muscles and his hat on backwards. Sweat pants and a sleeveless shirt, tattoos down both arms. Broad cocky grin even if the skin around his left eye is still green with bruise. 

“Hey, you Eliot?” the boyfriend asks, and offers his hand when Eliot says that he is. There’s something sharp in his gaze, in the way he assesses Eliot. Not like he’d be able to tell a competent fighter from a dumb bruiser, but like he’s trying to guess if Eliot’s the type to hurt him on purpose.

“Tyler. This is Jamie; he’d like to sit and watch the first session, if that’s okay?” 

Eliot shrugs. “Sure.” It’s Benn’s dime. 

He gives them the tour, locker rooms and showers, weight area where some guys are lifting on a weekday afternoon, the ring, currently unoccupied, punching bags and the padded area of floor for less competitive practice. He points Benn over to where a set of old high school bleachers are closed against the wall, just the bottom three rows pulled out. It’s close enough to give a good view of the action and far enough that he won’t be a distraction.

Benn sits where he’s told, elbows on his knees and leaning forward like he’s ready to jump in if Tyler needs him. 

“How’d you get the shiner?” Eliot asks, because knowing a fighter’s previous failures is the first step to preventing more.

Tyler grins and rolls his shoulders. 

“That whole ducking thing? Yeah, I didn’t do that. I’m not a big fan of a fair fight.”

Eliot takes an aggressive step forward and Tyler flinches three steps back, his grin dissolving. 

Eliot circles around and Tyler turns to track him. 

“Who hit you?” Eliot presses again. “I’ll be better at training you if I know what kinda guys you’re going up against. What kind of trouble is finding you.”

Tyler shifts around, keeps distance between them just on the basis of Eliot’s body language.

“Jealous boyfriend,” he says, and Eliot can’t help but glance over to where Benn is still sitting and watching.

“Not him,” Tyler says, and smirks.

Eliot raises an eyebrow. He telegraphs a slow punch, lets Tyler respond to it in the manner that feels comfortable to him, evaluating what he’s working with. Tyler steps back, taps the back of Eliot’s fist to deflect the blow. 

“So: jealous,” Eliot says, “angry, short-tempered, overconfident?” 

“Yeah, all of that.” 

“You think you’re gonna fight this guy again?”

“I’m gonna try not to.”

Eliot throws a few more punches, notes which way the kid flinches, where his hands go. He holds his hands up to indicate a pause and reaches out to take Tyler’s wrist, fixes the way he makes a fist and puts it in a better guard.

They work a little more; Eliot shows him some different blocks, side-steps, deflections. Tyler hasn’t worked up a sweat yet, and Eliot will give him credit for being in great shape. He’s not dumb, but it’s pretty obvious he’s not comfortable with this, flinching back when Eliot closes in too tight. He just doesn’t seem like the type to bite off more than he could chew and Eliot wonders how he got cornered into fighting someone straight up.

They finish out Tyler’s 90 minute session, and Eliot gives him homework to add to his routine at the gym. Benn comes up and shakes his hand and they go. 

A week goes by.

Eliot knows, from Antoine’s schedule, that Benn’s on the road, so he’s not surprised when Tyler comes in alone. He also comes with a dozen very _specific_ questions, “What if he’s close before I know he’s trouble? What if I’m on the ground, what if he’s bigger than me?”

It’s not in Eliot’s nature to ignore the picture that’s being formed, and he asks out loud this time, “Hey, I’ve seen your guy fight in a game. He seems kind of volatile out there.”

Tyler’s smile is fond enough to put Eliot’s worries to rest. “Just on the ice,” he says. “He doesn’t rough me up, even playing around.”

Eliot thinks about pushing, asking exactly who banged Tyler’s face up and why, but Tyler doesn’t feel like a guy who’s scared, a guy that’s getting pushed around, so he lets it drop until he knows him a little better.

The third session, Tyler brings a friend, a tiny dark-eyed boy that can’t be older than fifteen.

“I don’t have anybody bigger than me to practice with, so I thought Kyle could stand in for me, and I’ll stand in for guys bigger than me, and you can teach me how that works that way.”

Eliot kind of feels maybe he’s getting scammed, but a ninety minute session is a ninety minute session. It’s no cost to him if Tyler wants to share his time. He shrugs. “Works for me.”

Eliot isn’t sure what kind of guys he would expect a hockey player’s boyfriend to hang around with, but the six kids (counting Kyle) that Tyler shows up with the next week aren’t it. They’re not all skinny, but there’s something hungry, hollow around the eyes. Defensive, angry, skittish. Five boys, one girl, all of them younger than Tyler by four years or more, Eliot would guess.

“They’re just here to watch,” Tyler says like he has no doubts it’ll be allowed. “We’ve got errands after, and it was easier to bring them with me than go back across town.” 

Eliot can feel the waves of bullshit coming from Tyler’s grin, and this wasn’t what he signed on for, but whatever. “Yeah, okay. As long as they’re quiet and stay put.” Tyler gets them situated along the bleachers, and most of them watch the class pretty intently as Tyler (with Kyle’s help) go through what Eliot’s taught them so far. 

“Hey, we can’t figure out that flip,” Tyler says next week, back with his small pack of wild kids.

The spark of realization hits, followed by a wave of worry. Tyler is the least naturally-inclined hand-to-hand combat student Eliot has ever had, and he’s been trying to teach these kids the things Eliot showed him and that is so fucking stupid, so fucking dangerous. 

“Time!” Eliot calls, making the T gesture with his arms. “You!” he points at Tyler, “My office. The rest of you sit down and don’t move.”

“Hey!” The girl says, standing up, protective and angry for all that she’s maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. 

Tyler says something, soft enough that Eliot can’t catch it, and the teens settle down. Tyler follows Eliot to his office, strolling easy like he hasn’t done anything wrong, has nothing to worry about.

Eliot never invested much in office furniture, so there’s a card table sagging with paperwork, a folding metal chair and an old wall of lockers that he’s using as filing cabinets. 

“Sit,” he says, because he doesn’t want Tyler looking down at him through this. 

“Okay, what the hell. You? Are not qualified to teach self-defense. Not even close. You’re gonna hurt somebody fucking around in the back yard or whatever the hell you’re doing.”

Tyler’s grin falters. “No, we’re careful…”

“You’re not qualified to know what careful even looks like!” Eliot snaps at him and Tyler full-on flinches. “Why the hell would that seem like a good idea to you?” 

Tyler looks up, lips pressed to a fine line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “It’s not in the budget,” he snaps, “but they need this. They need more tools to keep themselves safe. More confidence. Something that’s just moving and not thinking.”

Eliot holds his hands up for a cease-fire. “Okay, okay, back up. Who the hell are these kids?”

“Marshall’s house. It’s a non-profit housing alternative for LGBT youth without other options.” Tyler sounds sort of like an infomercial. “I volunteer there, when I can.”

“Look,” Tyler says, and Eliot can sense the beginning of a bargaining phase. “I’ll ask Jamie if it’s okay to turn my private lessons into a group class, and I’ll keep coming and work real hard at what you teach, so you’re earning what he pays you. Just let the rest of them come too, or teach me how to teach them.” 

Eliot shakes his head. “I don’t do beginner’s classes. I’m not cut out for it. Teaching you one-on-one was a favor for a friend and a really good client.”

Tyler deflates, disappointed but not surprised. 

“But here’s what I can do,” Eliot adds. “I’ve got some guys that might be interested in teaching it, and I can donate the studio time.”

Tyler smiles then, bright and warm and real. “Thank you. I can totally get you the paperwork to write it off on your taxes.”

Eliot nods, although he’d rather not have one more thing to keep track of until he can hand it off to his accountant. “Yeah, okay, sure.”

He frowns then, as a thought occurs to him. “Hey, was this…did you plan this?”

Tyler shrugs, not quite apologetic. “Whatever they need. Can I meet the teachers you’re thinking, before they work with the kids?”

“Yeah,” Eliot grumbles. He’ll have to warn Jake and Cougar before he turns Tyler loose on them. Not that they wouldn’t catch on before he scammed them out of their shirts; it’s just good manners to give them a heads-up. 

If they choose to let him take every advantage, well, that’s their own business.


	3. Pop the Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Jamie asked Tyler to marry him

Crosby comes out in 2011, thanking ‘those who opened the closet door’ for him. 

Crosby marries his high school sweetheart (Jack Johnson, holy shit, it's the biggest surprise-that-shouldn't-be-a-surprise of the year) in the summer of 2012 (resulting in a series of trades and free-agent signings that eventually culminate in Malkin wearing Vicory Green). He invites Jamie, which is weird since Jamie doesn’t really know him. “I feel like I should invite you,” Crosby tells him when he calls to question it, to make sure the fancy little envelope wasn’t sent to him by accident. “You paved the way; you deserve to be there.” And that’s just weird, because everything Jamie did he did by mistake or for his own good, so he thanks Sid and declines the invitation.

“Hey,” he says to Tyler, the next time they’re home and alone and lounging around in post-orgasm bliss. “Do you ever think about getting married?” 

“To you?” Tyler asks, and Jamie groans. 

“Yes to me. Do you think we should? Do you want to?”

Tyler nuzzles in closer to him, hmms thoughtfully.

“This is for forever, right? You and me?” he asks, like he knows the answer already. 

“Yeah,” Jamie answers, his voice kind of rough. “Yeah, you’re. You’re it for me.”

“Me too,” Tyler says, soft.. “I don’t need a ring or a ceremony or a party to know this is a forever kind of serious.” 

“So you’re okay with living in sin with me?” He means it to sound teasing, realizes halfway through the question that he’s actually worried about it, that Tyler will someday decide that there’s something wrong with what they’re doing, that people from his church are thinking less of Tyler over them not being married. 

Tyler takes the question seriously, kisses Jamie’s jaw then looks up into his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure He knows I mean this too.”

Jamie feels guilty to be so relieved, to be spared the media circus and family drama that would have surrounded them on what should have been a sweet and private day. 

He thinks maybe later, if things keep getting better in the world and a gay hockey player becomes no big deal. Maybe after he retires he’ll ask again. Hold Tyler’s hand in front of everybody who loves them and say the words out loud.


	4. Tyler on Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyler's Christmas/birthday present, 2010

“Maybe this isn’t a great idea,” Tyler says as they’re on the way to the AAC. Jamie glances over at him while they’re stopped at a red light. He looks. Amazing, with comfortable-fitting jeans, a navy sweater over a white button-down, a slim, Victory Green scarf around his neck. Nervous too, where Jamie’s more used to him being brazen, bold. Only a few people get to see his doubts, his insecurities, and Jamie is honored to be among them. 

“This is family skate,” Jamie says. “You’re my boyfriend. You should be here.” He reaches over the console and takes Tyler’s hand. Feels Tyler squeeze it. 

“When have you met one of my teammates and they didn’t like you?” 

A smile quirks the corner of Tyler’s lips. If they weren’t driving, Jamie would kiss him. 

“I’m just not your typical wag,” Tyler says, and that makes more sense.

“What would Ron say?” Jamie asks. He saves the question for emotional issues he doesn’t know how to handle, using it sparingly so Tyler won’t catch on to how bad Jamie is at this kind of thing. 

Tyler thinks it over, and Jamie drives when the light turns green. 

“Probably that anybody who can’t see beyond my past to like me now doesn’t deserve my time or worry.”

Jamie nods along with the advice. Ron, even hypothetical-Ron in Tyler’s head, is great at this stuff. 

“So we’ll go in, say hi to the team, meet some wives and kids and girlfriends and then do our own thing, okay?” Seriously, he’s not looking forward to so many new faces in one place either.

Tyler’s trepidation lasts until they get there, and Mo’s girlfriend greets him at the door, bright smiles and casual contact, hand on Tyler’s arm. He smiles like the sun coming up, so beautiful, and Jamie doesn’t know how the hell he got so lucky.

The equipment guys have the day off to skate with their families too, but there are temp-workers that help make sure everyone who needs it gets geared up. There’s some joking about Tyler’s big freakin’ feet, how that reflects on other parts of his anatomy.

“I dunno if it’s quite on scale with the feet,” Tyler tells the skate-guy, “but I’m not hearing any complaints.” He smiles at Jamie, drawing him into the joke instead of making him the butt of it. 

Jamie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. They get laced up, and Jamie steadies Tyler as they clomp down the tunnel. Jamie steps out on the ice first, turns back and reaches a hand. Tyler follows him, skate hitting the ice and sliding and he’d go down without Jamie’s help. 

“Frick!” he complains, laughing, and Jamie is glad for Ron and David’s influence on Tyler’s vocabulary when small-people are around. 

Tyler gets his balance, correcting quickly when his left skate threatens to go out from under him. He takes a breath, and then a real stride, and Jamie moves with him. 

“It has been a long damn time,” Tyler says, but he’s grinning wide and wild, moving more confidently with every stride. The plan of meeting some people goes out the window for a while, and they skate, long loops around the ice, Tyler getting more daring, trying turns and cuts. He skates backwards for a while, Jamie’s hands on his hips, their eyes on each other. 

It’s a really good day.

==============

Tyler is an unexpectedly difficult guy to shop for. Jamie hears about the other guys on the team busting out with the expensive gifts and how excited their wives or girlfriends are. Diamonds, cars, shoes, purses. Symbols of status, symbols of how much their significant others are valued by hard-working athletes that don’t always have the time or energy to pull their weight in the relationship. 

Jamie doesn’t dare, with Tyler. Doesn’t want the impression that he’s buying him, that he’s paying for Tyler’s body or his love. For a while he can do clothes, picked for the feel or look instead of the label. He gives Tyler his old truck when he gets a new one at the start of the ‘10 season, and it feels like a shitty gift, no matter how Tyler seems to appreciate it. 

Jamie goes into the holiday season with a plan. Christmas and Tyler’s birthday are just a month apart, so hopefully Jamie can splurge a little and say the gift is for both without it feeling over the top. He does the research on the road, makes the call from a hotel in Minnesota. 

“Dallas Gay and Lesbian hockey club!” the cheerful voice on the other end answers. 

“Hi. Uh, I was calling to see if I could get my boyfriend signed up for a rec league. I know it’s mid-season, but…”

“No problem! No problem at all! There’s a second short-season just about to start. Has he played before? What level would he be interested in starting at, do you think?”

Jamie hesitates, a little overwhelmed by the sheer force of _cheer_ pouring out of the phone at him, and also wanting to start Tyler at the right place. Too far beneath him and he might not have fun. Too far above, same problem.

“We have a C and D, or he could come to the pick up game on Monday nights, play with some of the guys, see if he’d fit in A? We’ve never been able to offer so many teams before; it’s kind of exciting.”

“Huh?” Jamie asks, still wondering where Tyler should start out.

“With Benn coming out. Home-team’s boy. It’s given local hockey and local LGBT sports a nice boost, I can tell you. You wouldn’t believe the increase in calls we’ve gotten in the past year.”

Jamie feels the warmth creeping up his neck, coughs to clear his throat. 

“My boyfriend,” he says, to get back on track. “He’s eighteen now, almost nineteen. It’s probably been three or four years since he played at all.”

“Hm,” the person on the line muses. “If he’s comfortable with it, we could start him in C, and if he’s in over his head there are usually some slots that open up in D, so he could go where he’s more comfortable.”

“Okay,” Jamie says. 

“Sure! No problem.”

“Hey,” Jamie butts in. “Is it. It’s pretty safe, right? When I.” He can’t talk about the fights when he came out, the slurs on the ice.

“When I think queer kids and Texas and hockey…”

“It’s a good group,” the voice says, reassuring. “The captains stand up for their players. He’ll have a great team around him. The refs know what to watch out for. Most of them are pretty fair.”

Jamie takes a deep breath, lets it out. 

“Would you like to go ahead and pay his fees today, or…”

Jamie winces. He clearly didn’t think this through. Any illusions he had that he could be anonymous have been shattered earlier in the conversation. He wants this to be Tyler’s thing, not overshadowed by his NHL boyfriend. His name on the credit card will probably not stay confidential. He thinks. Maybe he can have one of the equipment guys use their credit card if he gives them the cash. 

“I don’t have my card on me,” he says, knowing it sounds terrible. “Can we do everything else though?” 

“Sure.” The hyper-cheerfulness is tempered somewhat. “I’ll fill it in, but the slot won’t be held until payment is made.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, making a mental note to get this paid for _tomorrow_ before he forgets it. “His name is Tyler Wenthold…”

He hangs up with a promise to call with payment ASAP. And then he pops open his laptop, heads for the sporting goods site. This is the fun part.

==============

Tyler teases Jamie as Jamie drives them out to the Dr. Pepper Center in Richardson. It’s not one that the Stars ever practice at, so Tyler hasn’t been there before. Jamie has only been once, signing autographs, doing a little media. 

“Is it a pony? Did you get me a pony for Christmas?”

“It’s not a pony,” Jamie groans, and Tyler pretends to pout. Jamie should buy him a pony, just to come out on top for once. 

“Little cruel, Jameson, bringing me out here to the suburbs and not even giving me livestock.”

Jamie snorts. “Maybe it’s a goat.”

Tyler grins, leaning back, watching Jamie drive. 

He’s less smiley when Jamie pulls into a parking spot. Curious but wary.

“Hey,” Jamie says, reaching to touch Tyler’s fingers as he turns off the truck. “This is your present, but if you don’t like it, it’s no big deal. I want you to be happy, not stuck doing something you don’t want to do.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, but Jamie thinks he looks lighter, less worried. “That’s reassuring,” he grumps. 

Jamie pulls on his baseball cap, wraps his scarf a little higher around the bottom half of his face. Not much of a disguise, but one can hope. He gets out of the truck, meets Tyler around the front bumper. Reaches down and offers his hand, and Tyler looks puzzled, because PDAs aren’t really Jamie’s style, but he takes it. 

They go in, and the game is already in progress, the next-to-last of the previous half-season’s matches. The calls of the players, asking for passes or chirping each other, are clear in the crisp cold air. Jamie leads Tyler to an empty spot on the long bench that runs down the wall between the rink and the locker rooms, no room even for bleachers, and they settle down to watch. The teams…aren’t very good, short stunted strides as they skate, passes that go wide or deflect off of too-stiff stick-handling. Being good is not the point though, Jamie supposes. They look like they’re having fun despite their struggles. Enjoying themselves, pushing but not getting angry about it. The team in the purple sweaters don’t seem like they’re being bullied on the ice. The refs are making clean fair calls for the most part, the miscalls not favoring either one. 

Tyler bumps his shoulder. “Rec-league hockey? If you wanted to take me to a game, we could have driven up to Allen at least. See Jordie play.”

Jamie smiles, even as his stomach does an ugly flip. Maybe this was dumb. Maybe Tyler will hate it.

“It’s gay hockey,” Jamie says, but that doesn’t sound right. “The purple team. It’s like a gay and lesbian social group that plays hockey together.”

Tyler looks surprised but not displeased. “Huh.”

“It’s your present. Christmas and birthday together.”

“You bought me a hockey team?” Tyler asks, struggling not to grin. Jamie groans, bounces their shoulders together. 

“I bought you a season of play. You’re in C, but you can change that if it’s not a good fit. Your gear is at my place. It should be everything but the skates.”

“Oh.” 

Tyler leans on his shoulder, watches the players line up for another faceoff. 

Jamie waits, watches until the next whistle and can’t take it anymore. 

“Is that okay? Did I fuck up?”

Tyler startles, lifts his head. 

“No. No, I’m just. I thought I’d never get to do this again. Play.”

Jamie reaches between them and threads his fingers between Tyler’s, holds his hand and lets him soak it in. 

“This is. This is good,” Tyler says at last, as the game ends and the teams go through the handshake line. “This. Thank you, Jamie.”

Jamie grins, more in relief than anything. “Good. I didn’t want to return all that gear.”


	5. Birthday Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer, 2010  
> Tyler lets Jamie pick his birthday present. Jamie asks for something Tyler isn't sure he's willing to give. 
> 
> (then they work it out)

Jamie is up in Victoria for his birthday, but he Skypes Tyler the morning of. It’s good to see him, stretched out on the bed in his room at Ron and David’s house. He looks healthy, happy. It feels like a really low bar to pass, but it makes Jamie glad every time, to know he doesn’t have to worry.

“I miss you like crazy,” Jamie says, sliding it in between Tyler telling him all about the trouble Cash and Marshall got into at the dog park. 

Tyler’s words break off, and his smile is soft and warm and Jamie misses the feel of his skin, sun-warm and smooth, misses the clean-sweat smell of him.

“I miss you too.” 

“So if I was to get tickets to Dallas, spend a couple weeks there before I head out to California for training, you wouldn’t mind?”

Tyler snorts at him, shakes his head. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. Asshole.”

Jamie grins. “Okay then. I’ll take care of it.”

Tyler makes a thoughtful noise. “Hey, so your birthday…”

“Yeah?”

“Want to do anything special?”

Jamie considers. “Like dinner?”

“Like anything,” Tyler says, which isn’t exactly helpful. 

Jamie kind of feels like Tyler is offering something more specific, like he’s supposed to guess the thing, the one thing Tyler wants to give him, but he can’t. 

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” he promises, and he needs to ask for _something_ or he’ll feel like an ungrateful recipient, but he can’t ask for anything monetary, can’t ask for anything Tyler won’t be willing to do or give. 

Tyler nods and they go on to talk about Jamie’s dumb friends who are trying to pack a year’s worth of partying into the month Jamie is home, how things have changed in Victoria and the things that Jamie thinks never will. They talk until Tyler has to go help make lunch, and Jamie lets him go, a shy “Love you,” the last words he says before he ends the Skype. 

He thinks about it though, through the days and nights before he flies back to Tyler. Coming up with ideas and then second-guessing himself away from them. 

Tyler picks him up at the airport and Jamie thinks he should feel embarrassed how relieved he is to see him there, in the flesh. He slides into the truck’s cab and leans in for a hug, to touch Tyler, to feel the strength of him in his arms, and Tyler tips his head and meets him with a kiss too. The car behind them beeps impatiently for their spot at the pickup lane, and Jamie breaks away with a grin.

“Al Biernat’s for dinner?” Tyler offers, and yeah. That. That exactly. A day of flying and airport snacks have left Jamie wanting real food, and the best steak in Dallas is a great welcome-home.

They go, and eat. Jamie doesn’t know what’s better, the taste of his food or watching Tyler eat his, the open pleasure on his face.

“You’re looking really good,” Tyler says as they wait for their desserts to come out. Jamie feels kind of extra-chubby with summer weight put on but not yet sculpted, so he shrugs. 

“You too.” Tyler’s hair is even more grown out, stylishly spiky in the front. He’s tan and strong and so fucking beautiful that Jamie couldn’t find the words to say so if he had all the time in the world. He looks like a college kid, maybe on a road trip for the summer. 

After dinner they go home again, back to Jamie’s place. It’s too quiet and empty without Marshall there. “I’ll bring her over in the morning,” Tyler says, like he can read Jamie’s mind. “She’s missed you.”

And then he slips a finger through one of Jamie’s belt loops, distracting him as he tries to take his shoes off in the entry way. Jamie lets himself be turned, lets Tyler push his back up against the foyer wall. Loses himself in the slow hungry kiss Tyler gives him. 

“You thought about your present any more?” Tyler asks, nudging Jamie’s lips with his own. It seems pretty clear now, that Tyler wasn’t thinking about something that comes in a box. 

Jamie takes a deep breath. Feels his cheeks flush just thinking about what he’s about to ask, about putting his vague curiosity into words, putting those words out there between them. 

“There’s…” Jamie feels dizzy with possibility. “There’s this thing you used to talk about doing. But then you stopped. I thought…if you still wanted to.”

Tyler cocks his head, but he doesn’t shut down, doesn’t get angry, and Jamie thinks that’s a good sign.

“Something _I_ used to talk about?” Tyler asks, trying to puzzle it out. “I don’t—you gotta help me out here.”

Jamie leans in to hide his face against Tyler’s, cheek to cheek and so nervous. David coached him on clear communication, although Jamie doubts this is the type of occasion he had in mind. 

“You’ve got a really pretty dick and I’d like to try it up my ass,” Jamie says in a rush, and Tyler makes this strangled little choke of a noise. Jamie flinches, thinking Tyler is laughing at him, at the words that were so hard to get out. He tenses, frowns, wishes there was room behind him to pull away. 

Tyler hugs him, then pushes back so he can see Jamie’s face. He looks surprised, not mocking, and worried. 

“This was supposed to be your present,” Tyler says.

Jamie nods. “I know. And it is. The thing I want. If you still want to.”

Tyler winces and takes Jamie’s hand, leads him to the couch where they sit with their knees touching. Tyler stares down at his hands, flicks his tongue out over his lower lip as he gathers his thoughts.

“Jamie, when I said that…back then. It wasn’t ‘I want to make you feel good with my dick,’ it was more like ‘I wanna make marks on you that’ll never wash off.’ I was…” he shrugs, struggling to find the words. “I was really scared and angry and just…desperate to be seen, felt. I kept feeling like I had to leave some sign I’d been alive. I wanted you to remember me. When I was gone.”

“But now you’re staying,” Jamie prompts, and Tyler nods. 

“I’m trying to be good to you,” Tyler murmurs. “You deserve…” 

Jamie slips his hand under Tyler’s, rubs his thumb over Tyler’s knuckles and cuts off the end of that sentence.

Tyler quirks a little rueful smile. 

“If you don’t want to anymore, that’s one thing,” Jamie says. “But. If you would want to try to make me feel good with your dick, it’s a really sexy thought, and I’d like to see if it’s as good in real life as it looks like in porn.”

Tyler fidgets with Jamie’s hand, and whatever the answer, Jamie is glad they talked about it, glad he understands how things used to be just a little bit better.

“I know a lot of guys like it?” Tyler says, still subdued, still off-kilter and quiet. “I just. It didn’t always suck, but it was never all that good for me. I don’t mind topping; I’ve fucked guys before, but not. Not anybody I cared about.”

“I trust you,” Jamie says, and he won’t think about the times it did suck for Tyler, not right now. “If it’s not great, we don’t have to do it again. If one of us is into it and the other isn’t, we don’t do it again. 

Tyler thinks it over, and finally nods. “Yeah. I.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I kind of broke the mood, huh?” 

Jamie sighs, shakes his head. “Tyler, no. Seriously. If you need to slow things down. If we need to back up a bit, we can do that. We can do that anytime.” 

Tyler rolls his eyes, but the tense line of his shoulder loosens. 

“So uh, about that mood,” Jamie starts, “You wanna watch some porn with me?”

Tyler snickers. “Are we that old and married already, that we have to get our motors running before we go?”

Jamie pokes him in the side and gets a full grin in return. 

“C’mon, I think you’ll like it.” He offers Tyler his hand and pulls him up from the couch, stops by the front door just long enough to grab his laptop bag, and then he leads the way to the bedroom.


	6. The smallest seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way Tyler remembers meeting Ron and David is not actually their first meeting...

The paper sacks are heavy as Ron pulls them out of the basket in the trunk of their car. He’d been meaning to bring them down to the food pantry for a week, but the dreary March weather had made David’s joints ache until he could barely walk from his bed to his chair by himself. The bags have been sitting on the kitchen table for a week, and he’s glad to be getting rid of them. 

The walk to the church’s doors seems even longer than not parking in a handicapped spot should warrant, and he’s feeling the weight of the bags by the time he gets there. Should have taken two trips, he admonishes himself. Not as young as he used to be. 

He nudges the button for the doors to open with his elbow, and heads into the cooler (but at least drier) air of the church, under the bright arches. Remembers when the physical body of their church was nothing but a gaggle of folding chairs in a repurposed hospital. He feels a swell of pride for how far they’ve come, how many thousands now call it home. 

He shifts both bags to his left hand and reaches for the food pantry’s doorknob, but the door opens before he can touch it. The wood knocks against his knuckles and he steps back. 

A boy steps out, dark hair, dark eyes, angular and pretty and tall. 

“Shit, sorry,” he says, and Ron opens his mouth to accept the apology. 

The grocery bag has reached its limit, and the damp bottom of the bag falls out, cans of food clunking to the carpet.

“I’ve got it,” the boy says, before Ron can begin to plan how he’s going to get low enough to pick them up. He kneels, shoves at his backpack when it slides off his shoulder. He makes neat quick stacks, same-size cans in vertical columns. Pushes the stacks against each other so he can lift them all at once. 

“Where did you want them?” he asks, glancing to meet Ron’s eyes. He looks tired. He looks thin.

“Oh. In here. Thank you.” Ron holds the door so the boy can get through easier.

Judy at the counter smiles to see them. “Back already, Tyler?” she asks, and the boy smiles back. 

“Dropping off this time,” he says, and Ron looks at him a little more carefully. He doesn’t look poor. His backpack isn’t worn, his shoes are decent. He could use a thicker jacket.

Judy takes the cans, and Tyler turns to go.

“Thank you,” Ron says again. “I’m Ron. It was nice to meet you.”

“Tyler,” Tyler says, quirks a wry grin and nods to Judy, “But you already knew that.” 

“Tyler, here,” Judy says, sliding a few of Ron's cans to the edge of the counter. “These have the pop-tops.” 

Color rises on Tyler’s cheeks, blotchy pink spreading up his jaw. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, unzips his backpack and lines the cans carefully inside. There are already cans in his bag.

He gives Ron and Judy one more nod and then heads for the door again. Ron watches him go, feeling faintly disquiet. 

“Pop-tops?” Ron asks and Judy shrugs. 

“No need to keep track of a can-opener,” she says. 

“Does he come often?” Ron asks, not sure what he wants the response to be.

“Often enough. He started showing up around November. Sometimes he’ll be by twice a week, sometimes it’ll be a month before I see him again.”

Ron hums, considering. There’s a feeling in his chest, familiar. Like the first time he set eyes on David. The feeling that _this is the one.  
_  
==========

“What are you looking for?” David asks, puzzled and not a little worried. Ron has the entirety of half his kitchen drawers dumped out on the table, haphazardly organized.

“The can-opener.”

David looks pointedly to the very nice electric opener that he bought Ron for Christmas eight years ago, when Ron had been commenting how difficult the mechanical one was on his knuckles. He doesn’t want to ask out loud if Ron’s having a senior moment.

“Not that one,” Ron says, barely looking up. “The smaller one.”

David wonders if he’s seen the one on the table right by his hand.

“Not that one either. The older one. Ah! This one.”

He holds up the tool in triumph, and David is beyond confused at this point. The thing is so old and tarnished it’s almost brown. The plastic on the handle is chipped off at the corners. It is a four-in-one, with a rounded jar-lid-pry on one side, a triangular point for opening cans of juice on the other side, a corkscrew (that David has less-than-fond memories of) that folds out of the middle, and a angled blade for cutting the lids off of cans on the other.

Honestly, he’d no idea the thing was still around, much less what use Ron might have for it now.

Ron gets one of the paper lunch sacks off of the fridge, puts the opener into it and carefully labels it “For Tyler” in his neat cursive.

“Don’t let me forget to take this to church on Wednesday,” he says, and begins to repack the drawers.

David sits down in a chair and watches, knowing that anything he tried to put away would be wrong.

“Who is Tyler, and why does he need a can-opener?” he finally asks.

Ron puts the last mysterious utensil back in the drawer. Sits down across from David. 

“He seems to be a dear boy who is in a bit of trouble,” Ron says, and David _knew_ he should have gotten a new puppy before this could happen. He’d just had doubts, that they’d be around for a dog’s life, and it seemed a shame to get one that would end up abandoned.

“I do believe you should meet him,” Ron says, and they have been together long enough, Ron knows him well enough, that David has no doubts that he’ll like this boy.

===============


	7. (the second time) Jamie proposes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie is just not good at this...

Jamie sighs, leaves his eyes closed. Tries to focus on Tyler’s thigh beneath his cheek. Tries to feel nothing but Tyler’s fingers gentle in his hair, not brushing, just touching. Marshall’s warm weight over his feet. Tries to narrow his senses to those that give him comfort. Ignores the sick ache in his head, the sensation of movement despite the room being so quiet, so still.

He wants. Needs. Reaches for Tyler’s elbow. 

“Hey,” Tyler says, shuffles around and pulls the earbuds out of his hears, turns off the audio-book on his phone. Tyler and the printed word aren’t really friends, but he likes to listen to his stories, and Jamie loves having something he can buy Tyler. It works out for them.

“You need something?” Tyler asks. The room is dark, and Jamie feels guilty, Tyler stuck here with him. Taking care of him. Guilty, but not sure he could do this without him. Without his love and his support and his presence.

“Why aren’t we married?” Jamie asks, feels Tyler’s abs heave a silent sigh.

“Because you’d just come out in the NHL and you shouldn’t have had to do one more thing just because people expected it of you.”

That’s…not the way Jamie remembers it, but maybe. 

“We should get married,” Jamie says, and Tyler hums.

“We should talk about this when we both weren’t recently scared shitless,” Tyler counters.

“I want to marry you,” Jamie murmurs. “I want to marry you. And retire. I feel. Like I’m killing myself, trying to get my hands on that damn cup again.” He is thirty-two years old, and aches like a man in his fifties. 

Tyler is quiet for long moments. “Say it when you’re healthy,” he whispers. 

Jamie grumbles, not really words, just a tone to say that he will but his choice won’t change. He needs to talk to his accountant, and his agent. Needs to call Avery and see if there are any surprises he’s not thinking about. He’s sure it’s gonna be more complicated than he imagines, but from what the guys he’s seen retire say, filling up the time is the hardest part, and he’s got Tyler, and Marshall’s house, and good work ahead of him. 

He thinks he’d like to do it as Tyler’s husband.


	8. What Would Uhura Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor to Marshall's House

Gina hesitates on the curb, checks the card that Dion gave her one more time. The address is right. “Marshall’s House,” the card says, “Housing and support for at-risk LGBT youth”. It doesn’t look like a group home, though. Looks just like every other house on this little suburban street, old trees and sixty-year old houses. The sidewalk is cracked, but the gutters are new. She walks up the path, hoping she doesn’t get shot if this is the wrong place, if she’s knocking on the wrong door. 

She wants to turn around. Wants to go back, back home, back before everything went to shit, back to being able to hide who she is, what she needs. Back to the foster home, even though she knows how bad that place is.

 _What would Uhura do?_ she asks herself, and stands taller, lifts her chin. Smooths her hair down beside her face with a delicate touch of her hands.

She looks for the doorbell, and there by the button is a little plaque, just bigger than her hand, and it has the same “Marshall’s House” logo as the card. It’s warm out, late-summer sun just starting to dip low behind the roofs of the houses next door, but her hand shakes as she reaches for the button, and she clenches her fists at her side as she waits for someone to come.

The door opens and she takes a step back, draws a sharp breath because this white boy is _tall_ and built, probably in his twenties, and this has gotta be the wrong place. 

“Oh, hi!” he says, like he’s been expecting someone and she might be it. 

She wants to run, but she’s got nowhere to go. She holds out the card, like it’s proof she belongs. 

“Does Dion stay here?” she asks, and the guy at the door steps back, nods her inside. 

“Yeah, him and Eduardo. They’re in one of the couple’s rooms. Dion’s at work, but Eduardo should be back from school in like an hour. You want to wait for them in here?”

She nods, shrugs, takes an awkward start forward and stops again. His smile gentles, less cheerful and more understanding. Leaves the door open and turns his back on her. She hitches her backpack up on her shoulder and follows him into the darker recesses of the house, past a big poster with some kind of rules list on it, through the living room and into the kitchen/dining room.

“Any dietary restrictions?” he asks, and she startles. “Allergic? Vegetarian? Just stuff you don’t like?”

“Huh? Uh, no.” 

He waves her towards a seat at the table and she sits. There’s a pile of text-books scattered across one end, balls of crumpled up notebook paper.

“Mac and Cheese?” he asks, poking through the fridge. She is caught between not wanting to accept favors she might not be willing to pay back and the snarling ache of hunger in her belly. The guy starts pulling dishes out while she’s trapped by indecision. 

He microwaves the plate, his back to her. It smells so good. Cheese and pasta and a slab of ham on the dish when he puts it down in front of her. He takes another seat at the table, on the other side but not directly across from her, by the schoolwork. Watches her take the first bites.

“I’m uh, Tyler, by the way,” he says, like he just realized he never gave her a name. “Usually Bernice is here; she runs the place, but she had an appointment today. I volunteer here whenever I can. I used to live here.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t look homeless. Doesn’t look like he knows the meaning of hungry or hopeless. 

He waits.

“I’m Gina,” she says, raises her chin, waiting for him to call her a liar. 

He doesn’t.


End file.
